


The Rule of Law

by Morninglight (orphan_account)



Series: A Sparrow in the Wasteland [10]
Category: Fallout (Video Games), Fallout 4
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Ass-Kicking, Canon-Typical Violence, Diplomacy, Duelling, F/M, Government, Politics, Trial by Combat
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-31
Updated: 2016-01-31
Packaged: 2018-05-17 09:06:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,819
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5863120
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/Morninglight
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's time for the trial by combat at the Minutemen's Castle and both Sparrow Finlay and Paladin Danse face their greatest trials. The fate of the Commonwealth rests in their hands while other factions watch and ponder their options.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Rule of Law

**Author's Note:**

> Note: Thank you for reading and reviewing! Two men enter and only one will leave! Ahem. Trigger warning for misogyny, dehumanisation, death, violence and fantastic racism, and mentions of child neglect/abuse, child soldiers and PTSD. This comes from content that was cut from the original game that frankly should have stayed there, but has been rewritten to suit the needs of the story. I also can’t believe that as arrogant as the Institute is, they wouldn’t have backup plans – or at least Shaun wouldn’t. His parents are capable people, after all.

Arthur Maxson was going to _kill_ Danse for putting him in this position. Once the broadcast reached the Prydwen – and those guns tested, one landing on Fort Strong’s western shore – he knew the synth had him trapped. Gone was the chance for him to deal with the traitor discreetly at the hands of Sparrow – and her chance to prove herself as Lady Maxson. The Proctors, all of whom _knew_ the Paladin was a synth, insisted that it received a fair trial as per protocol. Even Quinlan, utterly loyal to him.

            As he had the Initiate bring the vertibird around so he could land, he saw Danse waiting for him in the middle of a loose circle of people – including one visible synth and someone he was fairly certain was a ghoul. Its friends had come to play, it seemed. No matter, he could deal with it in front of its allies and prove to the entire Commonwealth the righteousness of the Brotherhood’s cause – and the foolishness of defying them.

            Two more vertibirds, each carrying two Proctors and other interested parties he’d need to remember closely, landed in tight formation behind his. Arthur Maxson jumped out before his vertibird landed, wearing his power armour as he was, and landed just before a dark-skinned man in a long brown coat and a woman wearing military fatigues with the bearing of a commander. The leaders of the Minutemen, the so-called group of citizen soldiers who’d expanded more rapidly than he anticipated, proving themselves to a danger. Reports had Danse helping them, spreading them like a virus throughout the Commonwealth. Were these two synths too? It bore investigating when he was done here.

            “Welcome to the Castle,” the old woman drawled. “I wasn’t expecting a lad so young.”

            Arthur raised his eyes to meet hers. “I was named High Elder at age sixteen through my accomplishments. I assure you, I am more competent that the construct you’re protecting.”

            “That ‘construct’ is a good man who insists on playing by your rules because of his utter loyalty to your order,” the General replied. “Wouldn’t be a Minutemen left if not for him helping out.”

            Arthur refrained from mentioning that it necessarily wasn’t a bad thing if these self-trained soldiers were wiped out. A certain amount of diplomacy was still necessary with the Minutemen, especially since they had those guns and apparently the ability to call down artillery strikes in their territory. “It,” he corrected mildly. “M7-97 is an it.”

            He looked around for Sparrow. Was she being held captive? The Elder had come to the reluctant conclusion that she was somewhat pliant despite her intelligence, prone to being persuaded by emotional arguments, and if she wasn’t a traitor he’d need to make sure that there were strong succession protocols in place if he died to protect her and any children she bore. If she had actively colluded with this _thing_ , he reluctantly had no choice but to execute her.

            “I’m here, Elder.” The crowds parted to reveal the Scribe wearing her uniform, chestnut hair pulled back into the tight bun he recalled her wearing when she first came on board the Prydwen instead of the softer style she sported when he made his intentions clear. “Paladin Danse, like any other member of the Brotherhood, is entitled to trial by combat. There is nothing in the Litany that prevents a synth from being refused the right.”

            “It is not alive!” he reminded her forcefully. “The Litany doesn’t apply to it!”

            “Danse was _alive_ enough to teach you the mini-gun,” she countered smoothly. “He was _alive_ enough to tear himself apart emotionally for the good of the Brotherhood.”

            “When this is over, you and I are going to have a long talk about usurping my authority in front of the soldiers,” he warned her darkly. “That is, of course, you aren’t executed for treason.”

            She stepped back, biting her swollen lip. It took Arthur a moment to process the likely reason for her mouth to be swollen and his veins flooded with a rage so complete that it was all he could do to remember where he was. Through weakness and misguided affection, the woman he’d chosen to be the next Lady Maxson allowed that _thing_ to kiss her, no doubt more than kiss her.

            “When I am finished with your synth lover, I will build your coffin from its parts,” he promised in a hiss of rage.

            “Threats against a civilian, Elder Maxson? I thought that Litany of yours had a strict code of conduct,” the General of the Minutemen drawled.

            “As a member of the Brotherhood of Steel, Field Scribe Finlay is under my authority, not that of the Commonwealth,” Maxson retorted, throttling back his justified anger and disappointment. That synth had sunk its claws deep into the Vault Dweller, no doubt recognising her vulnerable state. He should have sent Knight Rhys or Scribe Haylen to finish off the construct and kept her on the Prydwen.

            “That may be so, but you’re not in Brotherhood territory, you’re in the Commonwealth,” answered the dark-skinned Minuteman second. “We recognise your authority from Nordhagen Beach in the north to the Boston Airport in the south. We have no quarrel with you and the territory you control, the settlements who have voluntarily chosen to give their allegiance to you. In fact, you’re doing a good many things right, I’ll grant you that.”

            “Then why are you interfering in Brotherhood business?” Maxson demanded, utterly bewildered by these people.

            “Because you sent a good woman to execute a good man without fair trial, breaking your own laws,” the man, who had to be the Garvey Maxson spoke briefly to, answered with a lift of his strong chin. “Leaving aside all your complicated romantic history with both individuals, that’s an egregious misuse of authority in Minutemen eyes.”

            “And in Brotherhood eyes,” muttered someone too low for Arthur to identify. “Danse’s status as a synth is undeniable but your way of solving the situation is… morally questionable.”

            “Whatever I’ve done or not done with Paladin Danse, I’ll answer to the Proctors as is appropriate,” Sparrow said quietly, with far less shame than she should be showing right now. “But the Litany is clear: no member of the Brotherhood of Steel may be executed without trial by the hand of their sponsor or any candidate they have sponsored unless _caught in the direct act of treason by a superior officer._ Danse was caught in ‘nothing’ beyond existing – we have access to a witness who will vouch for the fact that he was an Institute synth who escaped his masters and underwent a memory wipe before heading to Rivet City. Whatever Danse was, he served the Brotherhood with every fibre in his being.”

            “That Danse needs to die goes without saying,” Proctor Quinlan agreed calmly. “He is a synth, an abomination of science. But the Paladin I know would gladly submit to the firing squad, so complete is his devotion to the Brotherhood’s tenets.”

            “For what we owe Danse, the Minutemen would have blown your fancy airship out of the sky to protect him,” the General added pointedly. “But he tells me that there’s children and civilians on board, and that’s not how we operate unless we have no choice. Only other synth I know who gives that much of a fuck about civilians is Nick Valentine.”

            “Enough!” Maxson swept his hand out imperiously to silence them. “I have a synth to execute and an errant Scribe to collect.”

            No doubt sensing his mood, the crowd made a path for Maxson, allowing him to stride effortlessly to Danse. The construct wore power armour, a more advanced version that the T-60 Paladins were assigned, and considerably modified besides. Its too-human face, once the face of a trusted soldier and maybe even a friend, was grim and prepared for battle.

            “So that’s Elder Maxson. He does like look the kind of guy to have a big flying metal penis, doesn’t he?” the ghoul, outlandishly dressed in garish pre-War garments, asked of the wiry redhead with freckles wearing tight brown leather.

            “He does,” she agreed in an Erin accent. “I mean, synths are dangerous but Danse and even that creepy bastard Nick could have fucked us up a dozen ways to Sunday if they wanted to and they didn’t.”

            “From you, Cait, that’s a declaration of love,” drawled a tattered, battered synth in a crumpled fedora and patched trench coat at the end of the line.

            “Shove it up your arse!” she immediately replied, earning a bray of laughter from the synth.

            Arthur looked the ghoul and the synth in the eye, marking them for future extermination. The ghoul smiled gruesomely, black eyes promising hell, and Nick Valentine’s plastic face was coldly judgmental.

            “Look at _me_ , Maxson.” For the first time, the synth that once dared to call itself a Paladin spoke. “I’m the one you want.”

            “You’ve played your part well, haven’t you?” Maxson asked of the construct. “Infiltrated the Brotherhood, disrupted its operations… corrupted its members.”

            Danse’s jaw rippled, brown eyes hard. “I didn’t know I was a synth. Every time a soldier triumphed under my command, I rejoiced. Every time one died, I mourned. When we stormed the super mutant Shepherd’s stronghold to take him down, I was proud of the soldier I taught how to fight with a mini-gun who led the charge. I remember the ruins of Rivet City, starving and searching for scrap to survive. When Cutler became a super mutant, shooting him in the head was the hardest thing I’d done to that point. I have lived and will die by the Brotherhood’s code, Elder Maxson, but I’ll be damned before I let you abuse it for your own purposes.”

            “And how, pray tell, have I abused the Litany for my own purposes?” Maxson asked, disbelief at the thing’s utter _gall_ colouring his voice.

            “Calling for my immediate execution without trial. You know, Arthur, I would have come in and accepted my fate. I am the enemy and need to be the example, not the exception.” Danse’s voice was stony as it deliberately avoided looking at Sparrow. “I could forgive that – you might have wanted to kill me discreetly so the common rank and file didn’t lose morale. Elders make those sorts of pragmatic decisions.”

            “So why the circus?” Maxson asked, ignoring its use of his first name.

            “Because you ordered the woman I love to do your dirty work when I had already accepted that her marriage to you would be beneficial to the Brotherhood and backed off,” Danse responded harshly. “I don’t know the legalities of that, but sending a Scribe to do a Paladin’s job in some warped test of loyalty is _wrong_.”

            “You would have perceived the Knight or Paladin as a threat,” Maxson pointed out as sucked-in breaths and gasps accompanied Danse’s little announcement. “But not Field Scribe Finlay. I obviously thought better of her loyalty and devotion to the cause than the reality.”

            “I would have accepted my fate, you hypocritical son of a bitch!” Danse’s sudden roar startled many in the crowd. “But from the beginning, you deliberately sought to mould Field Scribe Finlay into the perfect consort whether she liked it or not. Does she know you planned to kill her son, even if he was still a babe or child, because the Institute needed to be destroyed root and branch?”

            Sparrow gasped before a look of utter blank rage descended upon her features. “Until I found out what he’d become, Shaun was the one thing that kept me going,” she hissed furiously.

            “The Institute needs to be cut out like the cancer it is,” Maxson retorted, wondering why he was justifying himself to a pair of traitors. “Everything must be destroyed.”

            “Even the agricultural and medical knowledge they’ve maintained? What about those teleporters – can think of a few good uses for those,” the General of the Minutemen pointed out. “Put one of those on the Prydwen or at the Castle and we could get soldiers and supplies anywhere in the Commonwealth within minutes of receiving alerts.”

            “The General is correct,” Madison Li said firmly. “One of the reasons I agreed to return to the Brotherhood despite my reservations about the Liberty Prime Project was because Field Scribe Finlay explicitly asked me to smuggle out the advances in civilian sciences.”

            The scientist looked unrepentant when Maxson glared at her. “With the Institute’s civilian sciences, we could make the Commonwealth green again. I’ve already applied it to the Brotherhood’s own advances in agricultural science and Hangman’s Alley is producing three times the crops it did before. If we can help the Commonwealth prosper, we can do more than survive, we can thrive.”

            “And how long before ‘thriving’ leads to the perversion of technology?” Maxson asked acidly.

            “This from the man who’s planning to use a giant robot to blast its way into the Institute,” Madison retorted. “Subtle, Elder, very subtle.”

            “You’re gonna use the same robot that trashed the Enclave?” someone with a raw Capital Wasteland accent asked in the crowd. “Is it just me or have the Brotherhood gone insane since the Lyons died?”

            “That plan’s obviously gone out the window now you’ve chosen to reveal critical information,” Maxson informed Li. “The Institute will no doubt know this within the day.”

            “Hours,” Sparrow said grimly. “Father’s people are… effective.”

            “Other ways to skin a cat,” the General noted. “The fight’s not done yet.”

            “ _Please_ leave the felines out of this,” Proctor Quinlan said in a pained tone. The man was obsessed with that cat of his.

            “Enough!” Maxson roared once again. “Since the synth Danse has chosen to make its execution, I will be happy to oblige it.”

            Proctor Ingram stepped forward, expression neutral. “You are accepting Paladin Danse’s request for a trial by combat then?”

            Maxson allowed himself a feral smile as Danse shifted into a combat-ready stance. “You’d better clear a space, Proctor, because I am. And then I’m going to purge the Brotherhood of its taint. And then the Commonwealth.”

            He’d cleansed the Capital Wasteland, reunited the Brotherhood and destroyed numerous enemies. Compared to those struggles, dealing with Danse and its Institute masters was going to be a piece of cake.

…

“Two men enter and only one shall leave!”

            “Cait, this isn’t the Combat Zone,” Nick muttered to the brawler.

            “No, but it’s the same principle. Two men getting into a pissing match over a woman.” The redhead flashed a cheerful grin. “Now shut up and let me make the calls, synth. I can tell you the bets on this will be higher than Hancock on a good night out.”

            “Who will it be? The Synth Sensation Paladin Danse, able to punch a deathclaw into submission and kill a dozen mirelurks just so he can have a decent breakfast? Or Elder Arthur Maxson, the guy no one really knows anything about except that he has a flying metal dick?”

            Nick had to grant the woman knew her trade. If they could wean her off the Psycho, Cait might just have a future in managing radroach races or something. Or maybe the Combat Zone, just without raiders. Or another robot races like the one that got wiped out at East City Downs after the Brotherhood dealt with the Triggermen there.

            “Hundred caps on Danse,” Hancock declared after inhaling some Jet.

            MacCready, the merc who worked out of Hotel Rexford, was apparently in charge of taking the bets. Nick had no idea where Hancock and Cait found him for the retaking of the Castle, but he’d decided to hang around for the Brotherhood show. Coming from the Capital Wasteland as he did, the man had given the Minutemen a surprising amount of information about Arthur Maxson.

            One of the Proctors, a goateed man with iron-grey hair and a sly look about him, handed the sniper a handful of caps. “Ten on Elder Maxson,” he declared. “Danse is good but the Elder has a lot to prove.”

            The Proctor who liked cats glared at him. “This is a solemn trial by combat and you’re betting on the outcome?”

            “It’s serious business, Quinlan. The caps I’ll rake in will feed the Prydwen for a month.” The man sighed and shook his head. “Shame about Finlay though, she’s a good woman.”

            The Proctor in the power armour frame looked grim. “The Elder has to answer to us though,” she observed. “When a _synth_ has more respect for the Litany than the Elder…”

            “We’ll need to close up that little loophole Sparrow found,” Quinlan mused. “Such a waste about her. I never met a woman who understood the spirit of the Litany better.”

            They were making some assumptions about the likely victor. “What happens if Danse wins?” Nick asked.

            The Proctors stared at him. “No one asked for you to speak, synth,” Quinlan began, only to be shut down by Ronnie Shaw’s pointed cough. If that woman ran the Brotherhood, the Institute would be ruins by now.

            “What _will_ happen if the Paladin wins?”

            The Proctor who liked to bet looked troubled. “If Maxson dies, we need to choose a new High Elder. If Danse wasn’t a synth, he’d automatically get the rank, but…”

            “But nothing.” Shaw’s voice was harsh. “That man bleeds Brotherhood and proved he isn’t the Institute’s tool by running away in the first place. Just because he’s got a few circuits…”

            “The Lost Hills Elders would pitch a fit,” Quinlan said flatly. “If Danse wins, we…”

            “We’ll let him leave in peace,” the legless Proctor finished quietly. “It’s not likely he can become Elder, not when he’s a synth, but he will have proven his innocence about being an Institute plant.”

            “He’s more human than Maxson,” Shaw said bluntly. “Maxson just said that he’d wipe us all out if he wins. Not just the ghouls and the synths, but everyone who’s disagreed with him.”

            “In _and_ outside of the Brotherhood,” a female Scribe pointed out. “I joined up to make a better world, not let my moral fibre be drowned in an ocean of blood.”

            _Haylen,_ Nick identified, recalling the holotape that the woman had given to Piper on her trip to Diamond City.

            “The Proctors have ways of managing the Elders, Haylen,” Quinlan said firmly. “Maxson is still the best of us.”

            “I’d hate to see the worst,” Piper said under her breath.

            And then the ground shook as the two power armour-clad fighters closed in for the first time. Nick turned around, knowing that this fight would decide the fate of not just some very good people, but the Commonwealth as a whole. Somewhere, the Institute was probably pissing itself laughing.

…

Shaun Finlay wasn’t certain what possessed him to come aboveground to this reeking, ruined hellhole of a city with only a Courser – X6-88 – as company. Perhaps it was scientific curiosity to see the Wastelanders in their natural habitat or to observe his mother interacting with this Brotherhood of Steel that had gotten to her before he could. Maybe it was even his mother’s charisma that made him briefly consider that perhaps the Institute _should_ share some of their knowledge when she made the impassioned argument.

            M7-97 had been a prototype, somewhere between ordinary Gen-3 synth and Courser, and the supreme physicality of that model proved itself in power armour. Shaun wasn’t certain what to think about his mother’s relationship with the synth – tall, dark-haired soldier-type apparently not unlike his late father – but the construct’s devotion was obvious. He hammered this Elder Maxson into the ground, fighting with an agility no ordinary man would possess in power armour, and took hits that would have laid a typical synth out on its back.

            But Maxson was a skilled, canny fighter and returned blow for blow. It was an even match, truth be told, and Shaun found himself cheering softly every time Danse scored a small victory against the genocidal tyrant.

            “We should definitely continue the M7 models,” X6-88 noted calmly. “Their physicality and capacity for loyalty are almost equal to the Coursers.”

            Shaun’s mouth quirked to the side. “I didn’t know you had it in you to compliment anyone who wasn’t me or another Courser.”

            “M7-97 tore Z2-47 apart with his bare hands for your mother’s sake,” X6-88 observed dryly. “I respect any worthy adversary.”

            “You mean Danse,” Shaun corrected idly – and then paused as he realised what he’d done, assigning human qualities to a synth.

            But Gen-3 synths were fundamentally human, built from his uncorrupted DNA. Aside from a few plastic and metal components, they were organic entities capable of bleeding, feeling pain and all the other physiological reactions to mental, physical and emotional harm humans possessed. Some of the newer models were even capable of procreating with each other, their internal systems were so advanced.

            “We’ve redefined mankind, haven’t we?” Shaun asked wonderingly.

            “There are a few glitches,” the Courser, who was his personal bodyguard and close confidant, said critically. “But I think the post-M7 models are as close to perfect as anyone can achieve, short of a Courser.”

            Shaun took a deep breath. His latest model, the child-synth copy of himself, would grow as a human would. “Then I think it’s time we started to seed our own settlements with said models. Assign some Coursers to make sure they don’t go haywire but otherwise leave them alone.”

            “Father?” Dull surprise coated X6-88’s tone.

            “Also, if the escaped synths aren’t a danger to us or the Commonwealth as a whole, put them under observation by the same Coursers but do nothing else,” Shaun continued.

            He looked up at the stunned Courser and managed a wry smile even as the cancer clawed in his gut. “My mother once claimed that there was hope for humanity up here. I’m sceptical, but a good scientist never lets his personal biases get in the way of an experiment.”

            “Ah.” X6-88 sighed. “The division heads will disagree with your decision.”

            “Of course they will. Since Madison Li defected with that agricultural and medical knowledge, they’ve been running around like chickens with their heads cut off,” Shaun observed dryly.

            Then he sighed. “What my mother could have achieved if we’d just brought her directly to the Institute.”

            “I believe you wanted to show her what a hellhole the Commonwealth was before bringing her home,” X6-88 observed with just a hint of sarcasm. He’d counselled against that decision and believed himself proven correct.

            “I did. I’ve always believed she could have brought us into the light. The Institute is run by scientists, old friend, not leaders. And my mother… is a leader.” Shaun sighed again. “If Danse dies, you are to execute Maxson within the hour and blow up the Prydwen before my mother can be returned there.”

            “Of course, though she is against the Institute and its goals.”

            “Yes, she is.” Shaun sighed sorrowfully again. “Our secrets are being laid bare, X6, and sooner or later the aboveground will destroy us if we let them. I’m initiating Project Exodus.”

            “Not Project Ragnarok?” the Courser asked in some surprise.

            “No. There’s enough of the loyal son remaining in me to let my mother have her chance at saving the Commonwealth. She outwitted us, old friend, and she deserves to have her prize.”

            “I will leave enough forces at the Institute to convince the Commonwealth we have been destroyed when they inevitably attack,” X6-88 promised.

            “And I will remain. I’m dying anyway and… I would like to speak to my mother one last time.” Shaun looked up at the Courser. “Who knows? My mother may prove to be an enlightened leader who will allow the Institute forces to surrender and make use of our works and talents.”

            “I’m fairly certain the Brotherhood isn’t capable of such innovation,” the Courser noted dryly.

            “Probably not,” agreed Shaun. “If we’re fortunate, it will be the Minutemen who try and destroy us. They aren’t as… genocidal and self-destructive.”

            The scientist turned his attention to the fight. Judging by the exhaustion of the combatants, it would be over. And for the first time in a long time, he wasn’t sure if Institute ingenuity could overwhelm humanity’s tenacity.

…

Danse was a bruise from top to toe even inside the power armour and only the fact that Maxson looked as bad made him work through the pain. He’d lasted longer than he thought against the Elder and as he pulled off his now-broken helmet and tossed it to the side, the two men spiralling around each other to regain their breath, he vainly imagined for a moment that he might walk off this battlefield.

            The Paladin chanced a sideways glance at the Proctors and saw their troubled faces. No matter what, he’d raised doubts about Maxson’s leadership here. The Brotherhood might be able to save itself from the destructive path Arthur had started them on.

            “Why didn’t you throw the fucking helmet at him, you idiot?” Hancock yelled at him from the sidelines. “I’ve got caps riding on you! Take him down already!”

            Danse’s mouth, bloody and swollen, quirked to the side. _Of course_ there were bets on this battle for the Brotherhood’s future.

            “So the Paladin and the Elder are circling each other like deathclaws looking for a weakness!” Cait, who was treating this like a cage match, called out. “Which man with the metal dick will win?”

            Arthur pulled off his helmet and Danse dived to the side to avoid the projectile.

            “Stop giving Elder Asshole tips,” MacCready told Hancock.

            “Why don’t you just lay down and die already?” Maxson asked almost conversationally.

            “Because too many lives ride on it,” Danse retorted. “The Brotherhood of Steel is supposed to protect humanity from technology run amok, not aggrandise itself as conquerors.”

            “The Commonwealth needs unity and I can bring that to them.”

            “The Minutemen would argue the point.” Danse allowed himself a smirk. “With artillery that’s capable of bringing the Prydwen down.”

            “They need me to destroy the Institute!” Maxson snarled.

            “Actually, they don’t. Sparrow gave them a copy of the same holotape she made for Ingram in case the Brotherhood was destroyed by the Institute.” Danse deliberately pitched his voice so the Proctors heard that bit. “Of us all, I think she’s the one who’s kept her oath the best.”

            His eyes flicked sideways to the Scribe, who stood between Piper and Nick. Her face was tight with fear for him and what would happen if this battle was lost.

            Maxson spat, bloody spittle landing on Danse’s power armour. “Her own son runs the Institute. How do we know she’s not in league with them?”

            “If that was the case, she’d have married you cheerfully and manipulated you,” Danse countered. “And if you malign her once more, I’m going to make you choke on your teeth.”

            The Elder smiled sourly. “No need to continue the charade, synth. You’ve done plenty of damage to the Brotherhood and destroyed my hope for a loyal wife. You don’t have to pretend you love her anymore.”

            “Maxson, you’ve never loved anyone else other than yourself and maybe Sarah Lyons,” Danse retorted tightly as his fusion core beeped at 10% capacity. “So no wonder you can’t recognise it when it’s right in front of you.”

            “You leave Sentinel Lyons out of this! You defile her memory, you fucking construct, by speaking her name!”

            “And you defile her memory by becoming everything that the Lyons hated,” Danse countered softly. “The Lost Hills Elders must be pleased as punch to know how well you dance to their tune.”

            His barb struck home and Danse closed his eyes. If he died today, if everyone who ever supported him died with him, then hopefully he planted a seed that might save the Brotherhood in the Elder.

            Life in the Commonwealth was hope amidst the ruins, a stalk of serrated grey-brown grain coaxed from radioactive soil, a dream of a better tomorrow. All Danse could was plant a few seeds of whatever came to his hand and hope it would grow.

            He heard Arthur’s metal footsteps speed up as he charged forward and activated the jetpack mod that Sturges installed. He went straight up for about five seconds before the fusion core died… and then fell right back to earth to land so hard most of his battered power armour fell off, leaving just the torso Sparrow gave him and the frame he was encased in.

            Danse unclasped the torso and let it drop as Arthur halted his charge just before the Castle’s wall and turned around, rage twisting his face. According to the rules of the trial by combat, he would have to exit his power armour and fight in hand-to-hand combat now.

            But the Elder didn’t. He just charged again, steps shaking the ground, and it was all Danse could do to avoid the attack.

            “Paladin!” Ingram’s voice cost him precious seconds as he looked in her direction. The legless Proctor threw him a weapon he vaguely recalled peeling from the carcass of a behemoth in Boston Common – a power fist, a gauntlet/cestus combination with a piston that added force to the wearer’s punch.

            He fell back, quickly fitting the power fist to his right hand as Maxson turned around once more.

            “This is not a trial, this is an execution!” he announced.

            “You agreed to Paladin Danse’s request for trial by combat, remember?” Ingram shot back. “By remaining in power armour after his was removed, you’ve broken one of the cardinal laws.”

            Proctors Quinlan and Teagan exchanged looks as several of the other Brotherhood members were nodding. Reluctantly but nodding in agreement.

            “As such, Arthur Maxson, you’ve forfeited the match. Paladin Danse has won the trial by combat.” Ingram’s tones were like the beaten earth of the Castle’s courtyard – smooth and hard.

            “It is a synth!” roared the Elder. “It has no rights-“

            “Until the Elders formally close that little loophole Scribe Finlay found, the synth has every right as an acting member of the Brotherhood of Steel,” Quinlan admitted unhappily. “It is the spirit of the Litany, as well as its letter, an Elder must embody.”

            “Never thought I’d see a fucking synth uphold the Litany better than a Maxson,” Teagan agreed disgustedly. “Stand the _hell_ down, Elder. You’ve lost.”

            Danse settled into a defensive stance, waiting for Maxson’s next action.

…

Sparrow’s fingers twisted in nervousness as she waited for her gambit to play out. Weeks of perusing the Litany and reading the records on the Prydwen, applying all the legal training from another life to her current situation, trying to uphold the rule of law in the Brotherhood where it threatened to go in the direction of might makes right. For this, she would have laid down with Arthur Maxson while mourning Danse’s absence. But when Arthur sent her after Danse to execute him without due process, she had enough.

            Around her, the Minutemen began to crank their muskets in case he decided to cause trouble. Ronnie Shaw had agreed to play along with her plan because despite their bravo, the citizen soldiers didn’t have enough artillery to cover their territory yet and vertibirds could hit hard and fast. A war between the Minutemen and the Brotherhood would tear the Commonwealth apart while only the Institute, the Gunners and the other rogue factions won.

            “Democracy, the rule of law, the freedom of the press and the political neutrality of the military are the pillars of a just society,” she said, stepping out from the crowd to stand between the men. “America forgot that once and it led to the Great War. Might is often necessary to keep the peace, but it should never be the _only_ means and it should never be deployed for its own sake.”

            She slowly turned around, looking ghoul, synth, Brotherhood soldier, Minuteman, Neighbourhood Watch and civilian in the eye. “There are enough factions represented here to start something great, if they wanted to. Hell, if the Institute wanted to play nice, I’d welcome their presence too – though I fear it’s probably too late for the zealots in their ranks.”

            “The Institute ruined our _last_ attempt at unification,” Hancock pointed out.

            “From the little my son told me before he tossed me out on my ear, I think it was a bit more complicated than that, but it’s beside the point.” Sparrow met the ghoul’s alien eyes, seeing the well-meaning community leader behind the chem-addicted façade. “We have Minutemen, Brotherhood of Steel, Goodneighbour and Diamond City represented here. Once, thirteen colonies signed a Declaration of Independence from a tyrannical power five hundred and ten or so years ago, and roughly a hundred years ago settlements united in the west to become the New California Republic.”

            She smiled awkwardly. “I guess I’m hoping we could create a new government in the Commonwealth, open to anyone who proves themselves benevolent – ghoul, free synth, human. For every Courser, there must be a Paladin Danse or Nick Valentine; for every Fast Eddy, a Mayor John Hancock. As I said to Piper in my interview for Publick Occurrences – ‘seeing humanity rebuild gives me hope’. I am Sparrow Finlay, the Sole Survivor of Vault 111, the Woman Out of Time, Field Scribe of the Brotherhood of Steel. Please – show me we can rise above ourselves and become part of something greater.”

            She looked to Arthur Maxson in his fancy Elder power armour. “Whatever happens to me and Danse is in the hands of the Brotherhood,” she said quietly. “But please, stand down and agree to this, for everyone’s sake. If you truly care about the Commonwealth, you will do this.”

…

Arthur Maxson slowly looked around at the Proctors, the Initiates and everyone else who’d followed him to the Castle to see a synth executed, acutely aware that the rug had been pulled out from under his feet. The soldiers he’d brought to the Commonwealth were those who wanted to settle down and establish a permanent encampment. They had been swept up in Sparrow’s eloquence like ravens in a headwind. He already knew that Danse would walk, the fucking abomination. It had made too many friends in the order to be cut down like the monstrosity it was.

            “Well-played,” he rasped for her ears alone. “You’ve not only usurped my authority, you’ve completely obliterated it.”

            “This was never about taking anyone’s authority,” Sparrow answered quietly. “This was about uniting people against a common enemy and to make a better future. You can still be a part of this, Elder Maxson.”

            The belief shining in those brown eyes was sincere. She truly believed she was doing the right thing.

            As did he. And in the Brotherhood, if you wanted to decide the course of the future, you fought for the right to do so.

            “Get me some stimpaks and a pistol,” he said through gritted teeth as he stepped out of his armour. “Since you seem to think you know the direction that the Brotherhood should take better than me, we can settle this via trial by combat. You might even have a chance now your pet synth has softened me up a bit.”

            If she flinched away from this, he would regain some authority amongst the Proctors. The synth had played its part well, he had to admit, but Sparrow was always the weak link.

            Her jaw set stubbornly and she nodded. “Garvey, get me the pistol I brought with me to the Castle. I should use a Brotherhood weapon to end this.”

            “You’ve never had the strength to handle a Brotherhood weapon,” Maxson pointed out as Knight Rhys brought medicines and a heavy laser pistol. “You’ve always used an Institute weapon in service to the Brotherhood.”

            Sparrow exchanged a glance with Danse, whose expression promised retribution if the Scribe should die. Maxson hoped it was foolish enough to attack – killing the synth would be almost as good as letting it live on, desolate and mourning the woman it thought it had a right to love.

            “And we’ve both served the Brotherhood well,” Sparrow said coolly as the Minuteman brought out the very pistol he’d given her to execute Danse with. “I assume that we walk ten paces and turn around to fire from the hip?”

            “Yes,” he replied, startled she knew the duelling code.

            “So be it. God help us all.”

            She was the only one who needed help. Maxson would have her head for the damage she’d caused to the Brotherhood with her pre-War ideas when they’d caused the Great War in the first place.

…

It was Cait who called the count as she’d called the battle between Danse and Maxson. She didn’t know how the Brotherhood of Steel’s so-called leader used a pistol but she knew that Sparrow was actually a pretty decent hip-shooter. She also knew that Maxson wasn’t going to walk out here alive, not when the woman had fired up so many people about forming a government, if he killed her.

            She still thought synths were pretty fucked up but some of them weren’t completely evil. Nick was alright and Danse was practically human. And with the Railroad going around and switching memories in people, how was she to know she wasn’t a fucking synth herself?

            The Elder and the Scribe marched away from each other, pistols in hand, until she reached the count of ten. And then with a sudden turn, it was over.

            Arthur Maxson was sprawled on the ground, clutching a smoking ruin of a hand as he screamed. If Cait didn’t know better, she’d have sworn Sparrow was on Jet, the woman moved that fast.

            The Scribe walked over, pistol in hand, as the Proctors began to talk amongst themselves. “I don’t believe in killing young men who have the chance to grow up and do better,” she told him. “You were a child soldier, Maxson, and that left a lot of scars on your psyche. I know, my husband had similar emotional wounds because he enrolled in the army when he was sixteen.”

            The Elder glared up at her and she sighed. “Go back to the Capital Wasteland with those who still wish to follow you. You’re the Elder of the Capital Brotherhood of Steel and I have no wish to change that.”

            “If you think the Lost Hills Elders will allow this,” he began, voice tight with pain, only to be shut down with a single glance.

            “I thought you wanted to tell the Lost Hills Elders to go fuck themselves?” Sparrow asked bluntly. “The values they made you swallow after they killed the Lyons made you lose today, Elder Maxson. Go home and take a long think about what you’d like the Capital Wasteland chapter to be. If you want to be friends with the Commonwealth, that’s fantastic. But if you want to start another war, rest assured that we’ll be ready and waiting for you.”

            A strange expression crossed the young man’s face and he nodded slowly. Cait thought they should shoot him as an example but Sparrow was soft-hearted and optimistic to a fault.

            ”The Prydwen stays here,” Sparrow continued, looking him directly in the eye. “You can take as much power armour and vertibirds as you need to make the trek back home but the airship remains.”

            “I’ll remain,” Proctor Ingram immediately said. “You’ll need someone to maintain the beast.”

            Quinlan shook his head. “I’m going and so is the cat,” he declared. “I will not watch the Brotherhood be divided once again because of your naivety.”

            “I’ll send out a broadcast and let the soldiers make their own choices,” Teagan announced. “Personally, I’m staying. Sick of pissing around the Capital Wasteland killing things, might settle down and farm or something.”

            “We could have made the Brotherhood great together,” Maxson finally said, looking at Sparrow.

            “If you hadn’t ordered me to execute Danse without due process, I’d be married to you right now,” Sparrow answered. “I believe in the Brotherhood, Arthur. I just think it needs to look beyond itself and be part of something greater.”

            She turned away from the Elder of the Capital Wasteland Brotherhood as the few ones with any brains in their heads started calling her Elder Finlay.

            Cait stared at her and re-evaluated her belief about happy endings in the Wasteland. Maybe with Sparrow’s help, she could find one of her own.

…

X6-88 exchanged glances with Father.

            “Relay us back to the Institute,” the old sick man ordered as he wiped blood from his lips. “We have precious little time to get Project Exodus started before they come for us.”

            The Courser obeyed but just before the blue-white light took them home, he looked over his shoulder at the aboveground factions preparing to unite themselves into a single alliance and wondered. About what, he wasn’t sure, but today’s events and Father’s musings had certainly gotten him thinking.


End file.
